Carry That Weight
by Lasrevinu
Summary: Wee Gum Drops lost scene ficlet. Grissom knocks on Sara’s motel room door, hilarity ensues. GSR


Disclaimer: I not only own _CSI_, I own Viacom, Time Warner, and NeverNeverland.

Rating: K+

Spoilers: The original _Gum Drops _spoilers courtesy of Mystery over at YTDAW -- oh, that would've been a good episode. If you haven't read them, you probably won't understand this ficlet.

Summary: Wee ficlet. Grissom knocks on Sara's motel room door, hilarity ensues. GSR, my lovelies.

A/N: I stole the title from a Beatles song. Oh, I own them too.

A/N #2: No, I don't.

**Carry That Weight**

She could see him behind the glass. But he couldn't see her.

Wasn't that always the way?

He looked weary, always weary, as he explained their similar predicament to Dr. Lurie. Like air escaping a balloon, Grissom's words left him, leaving a deflated shell in their wake. Lurie and his lawyer would leave. Brass would leave. But Grissom would stay.

And so would Sara.

He'd walk up to the glass and examine himself in the two-way mirror. She'd watch him inspect his reflection with a critical eye and ache for the man who could look at himself with such disgust. She'd wonder what he saw that made him frown so.

And as she contemplated his thoughts, he would always lift his right hand up and place it on the mirror. She was never far behind, lifting her left hand to fit opposite his right, a perfect match. It always ended like that, so peaceful: hand-to-hand, though he didn't know it, and eye-to-eye, though he didn't know it, either.

This time as she was watching him lift his right hand, he balled it into a fist and proceeded to pound the glass.

"Sara? Sara?" she could hear him say, his words muffled by the glass and the pounding. She shook her head. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. The room got cloudy and his voice got louder. She could hear it coming from behind, alternating with the pounding.

With a sharp inhale, Sara pushed her upper body clear up off of the bed, palms flat against the mattress, and searched the darkened room as she got her bearings. The motel. Missing little girl. Dead family.

Upset Grissom.

He was knocking at her door, calling her name. Sara blinked and got out of bed. She opened the door and found him standing in the chilly air, clad in sweatpants, a T-shirt, and his loafers, an ensemble that was altogether unsexy, though he managed to wear it well. He regarded her own outfit, purchased, like his, at a last minute trip to a nearby discount supply chain for their small-town stopover. Sara had chosen a pair of sweatpants she knew she would get use out of after the trip, and then split a two-pack of men's cotton T-shirts with Nick. It was a loose fit, but it wasn't like she expected visitors.

"Greg snores."

Sara arched a brow and backed up, allowing him room to enter. He walked up to the double bed closest to the door, which lay undisturbed. She watched Grissom peel back the duvet carefully and sit down on the edge of the bed, mildly embarrassed that her own bed looked like a shipwreck of ugly pillows and sheets.

He didn't move as she climbed onto her bed and attempted to straighten out the covers while simultaneously getting under them. "Thanks, Sara."

"No problem," she said quietly, trying to get comfortable. It was hard. She could hear his breathing.

"Did you, uh, set the alarm?" Grissom asked, picking up the ancient alarm clock on the nightstand in between them.

"I set the alarm on my phone."

"Oh."

Sara closed her eyes, determined not to look at him. She could hear his sheets rustling as he got into bed, could hear him clear his throat as he shifted around, getting acquainted with the lumpy mattress.

"Goodnight, Sara."

"Goodnight."

They were silent, save for the soft sounds of their breathing. Sara turned on her back and stared at the shadows on the ceiling. She was tired, but not too tired count the seconds between his exhalations when his nose would whistle ever-so-slightly as air rushed out of it. It should have been annoying, but it was sad: a glimpse of an intimacy that would never be reached between the two. The glass between them would always be there, a barrier.

"I love you," she said, out into the dark. It was the first time in her life that Sara had spoken those words to anybody. She could hear his breathing halt, but he stayed silent. "I know you're not asleep, but we can pretend you are. I just needed to say that."

She was quite surprised that mortification didn't follow her confession. She felt…free. The next morning, work would no doubt be awkward. Grissom would probably keep her as far away from him as possible, and Sara knew that she had pretty much banished herself to life without him, but she didn't care. She didn't care. She was being honest. It was quite possibly the first real, honest moment between them that wasn't hidden by sarcasm or cryptic doubletalk. Sara couldn't count how many times Grissom would give her a half-compliment and she'd spend the rest of the week overanalyzing it, looking for some nugget of true insight into how he felt about her.

There was no second-guessing "I love you." Sure, she'd given him the out -- he could pretend it never happened, no harm, no foul, but he'd always know the truth.

Sara smiled up at the shadows on the ceiling, feeling her lids grow heavy. It was quite possible she had just made life a lot harder than it already was, but her life stopped being an untold truth, and that more than made up for the hurt that was to follow.

She closed her eyes, back to the dream: the interrogation room, Dr. Lurie, and a sad, sad Grissom. As the broken man moved to get up and examine himself in the two-way mirror, Sara shook her head and walked towards the exit, her hand on the cold metal knob. She turned it and stepped out into the doorway, sure of herself until the room shifted around her, making her lose her balance.

Sara's eyes opened wide as she felt her bed shift. Grissom eased himself under the covers, wrapping his right arm around her and pulling her long, lean body against him.

They were sharing a pillow.

Tense, Sara could feel his breath on the back of her neck as his hand slipped under her T-shirt and found purchase flat against her stomach. He kissed her shoulder, and she could feel the warmth of his lips through the cotton.

"Greg doesn't snore."

THE END


End file.
